


hush little baby, don't say a word

by magisterequitum



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Gen, S4 Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 19:44:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterequitum/pseuds/magisterequitum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Silas comes to visit Elena and the faces he wears when he does. </p><p>(or Silas comes a haunting)</p>
            </blockquote>





	hush little baby, don't say a word

[1] Miranda and Grayson

 

She is sleeping when she feels the fingers on her cheek. It's odd because she's not in bed with anyone, Alaric's loft is empty of others, and she's not invited anyone to be here. The touch is light, a nail tip softly picking at her skin, knuckles soothing and rhythmic. She curls her own hand under the covers, ready to crush the windpipe of the person who's invaded her sleep. 

When Elena opens her eyes and swings her arm up from under the comforter, it's familiar eyes that she meets. Eyes she's not seen since the family portrait of their last summer beach trip burned up to ash when she dropped the match. Her hand freezes in the air. 

"Mom?" her voice is a quiet hushed thing. 

Miranda Gilbert smiles and hums a song she used to sing to Jeremy and her. "Elena, baby." 

Her mother's fingers trace down the side of her face, just like she did every night before Elena turned ten. 

Elena blinks and then she's gone. It's only stale air that smells slightly of liquor bottles and darkness from the nighttime. 

 

-

 

She drops her hands to her side when she walks out of the bathroom to see her father seated on Ric's couch. Her throat convulses and her dead heart stutters. She'd thought last night had been a dream, a trick like all the other dreams that had been closing in on her lately, trying to make her remember things she didn't want to. 

Grayson looks up from where he's fitting a bolt to the crossbow in his lap. His worn mouth stretches into a genial smile, eyes traveling over her bathrobe. "You'll be late for school, sweetheart, if you don't hurry up." 

Elena says nothing. Her heels press into the hard floor, molars gnashing at the side of her cheek. 

"But then," her father snaps the bolt in place, a loud clicking sound that reverberates off the walls. "that would be something that wouldn't disappoint me. And you're not so great at doing that these days, are you, Elena?" 

She slams her eyes shut when his arms bring the crossbow up, level with her heart. She's familiar with the sound it makes when it flies, she's held it in her own hands after all, felt the recoil and the kick of it. 

It never comes. 

Instead her heels are still stuck in place and the loft is full of harsh panting sounds that she only realizes later came from her. 

 

 

[2] John

 

She sees nothing for the next few days. When she goes to school and smiles for the others to get them off her back, when she lies threw her teeth that she'll be nice and gentle, when she thinks about snapping the necks of Stefan and Damon and seeing if they'll get it then, when she doesn't wake at all during the night, she sees nothing else.

She tells herself it happened because she was hungry, hadn't fed herself properly, and walks two highway exits away from Mystic Falls and sinks her teeth into a traveling kid on his way back to UVA. Her mouth's smeared wet and red as she wipes the blood away from the boy's neck to clean the wound. She sends him off with instructions to eat a steak when he gets home and not to wrap himself around a tree. The red taillights disappear around the corner. 

"So this is what you've done to yourself?" 

Her eyebrows constrict in a 'v', the derision in tone of question filtering through her ears and cataloguing itself to match with a name. She turns her head to the left, glancing to the space behind her shoulder. 

Uncle John sneers at her, his eyes hard and flinty and _disappointed_. 

"Go away," Elena murmurs. She shakes her head, a tiny little jerk of her chin. 

John's mouth thins further. "Goddamn disappointment. I died for this and you? To watch you eat people on the side of the road?" 

She runs, her feet slapping against the pavement, his voice at her back spurring her forward. 

 

 

[3] Jenna

 

Elena nearly asks Bonnie about it. 

They try on dresses for prom, a moment of respite, and Elena remembers to laugh and smile and compliment. She watches Caroline twirl in the mirror in a white mermaid and Bonnie in blue with her hands holding her hair to the side. It's on the tip of her tongue, _"can you see ghosts as a vampire? are there ghosts roaming around again?_ " 

She remembers though that she doesn't care. She does not think about how her mother's perfume has been lingering in her nose, or her father's comments on her short stories hanging in his office in the clinic, or John's present of a fancy fountain pen one Christmas when she was twelve. She does not. 

She agrees to lunch at the Grill after, sliding into the booth, and picking at the salt shaker while Caroline and Bonnie sidle off to the bathroom. 

"Are you going to eat anything?" 

Her fingers still on the shaker, salt particles clinging to her skin and under her nail. 

"I was thinking about their grilled cheese. You know that's always good." Jenna's perusing the menu, a thing she always did even though they'd eaten here enough. She looks over at Elena across from her, warm smile and a flash of white teeth. "You should eat, Elena, you've not been looking well lately." 

(She doesn't need to be told about the sallowness of her skin and the darkness in her gaze and the limpness of her hair or the snappish attitude she's had, even more prevalent, to others. She does not think on those things either. She avoids mirrors lately.)

"Shut up," Elena snarls across the table. Her hands creak against the booth's wood, near close to cracking it. 

Jenna frowns, lips turning downward, heavy at the corners, and then purses her mouth. "Of course. You're making my life harder once again. As you have since the first day I had to come get you from the accident." 

"I said shut up," her voice rises now, a shout, and her boots stomp down on the floor. 

"Elena," a different voice. 

She jerks her head to the right to see Caroline peering down at her, Bonnie over her shoulder, them both back from the bathroom. 

"Who are you talking to?" Caroline's blue eyes are wide with worry and suspicion. 

"No one," she answers to empty air across the table. "No one." 

 

 

[4] Jeremy

 

The Mystic Falls cemetery smells of wet dirt and pollen; ironically, or maybe not, it doesn't smell of death or dead bodies, at least not to her nose. 

She stands in front of the headstones that all have the same names on them, save for the 'Sommers' at the left. The grass gives under her feet. It's the first time she's been here in weeks, months. 

A hand places itself on her shoulder as she stares down at the graves. A large hand with calluses on the ends from holding pencils in them too much and pressing down on stock paper. A large hand that gripped her hard when he'd broken his ankle climbing a tree when he was nine. A large hand that held hers in the church at the funerals; which one, too many to count these days. 

"No," she whispers down to the dirt. 

"Elena," and it's the smell of pot and boy's soap and that stupid jacket he'd always worn. 

"No." She repeats it again into the air. 

Her mind shudders, compressing in and trying to close it all up. There's too many boxes this time to shove away, too much water spilling over, and it's nearly almost like drowning again. That quiet hush when the water settles around you, before it spills into your lungs and hollows you out all at the same time. 

Another hand on her other shoulder and then it's Jeremy's forehead pressed against the back of her neck. "I love you." 

Her mind collapses. 

She screams in the graveyard. 

 

 

[0] 

 

He doesn't come as herself, and she wonders why. It'd maybe be too much if he did, a replica of herself and her inner most thoughts that she's kept at bay for weeks now. 

He comes as Shane though. Familiar and not at all comforting, and she knows then that it's been him following her, appearing before her, working his way through her memories and picking just what perfect things to say. 

Silent tears work their way down her dirty cheeks as he kneels next to her. He touches her cheek, dark eyes seemingly fascinated by the salty wetness. 

Elena would say something to Silas if she could. Her throat's closed up and raw though. It's all too much, an open wound and soreness in every line of her, a livewire cut off with no closing circuit, a bleeding nerve spilling all out in the grass. 

Jeremy's tombstone rests solid against her back.


End file.
